Page 35 of Hidden Desires

I almost reply “I’ll save you,” but of course, I can’t. Instead, I write: You got this. You’re smarter than any of them. (Also, your boss is a dick.)

A minute passes. Then:

I can’t do this, Jack. The hiding, the endless work. I’m gonna lose my mind.

My heart swoops because I’d do anything to help her. But right now, all I can offer are kind words.

You can’t be everything to everyone, I write, and then: You’re enough for me.

I can almost see her smile.

You’re the best, she replies. But what if my mom is onto us? What if my dad finds out? I feel like I’m going crazy.

I look around my house—so tidy, so orderly—and wonder how I ever thought I had control of my own life. “Crazy” isn’t even in the top five.

Okay, you’re right. Let’s lay low for a week, I send. No calls, no texts. We’ll meet somewhere safe next time. Like… Siberia.

She sends back three laughing emojis, then: You’re so dramatic. I love it.

There’s another pause. I finish the bottle, listening to the wind rattle the screen door.

Then, a final ping: I wish I was there with you right now.

Me too, I type.

We say goodnight, but I keep the phone beside me, just in case. I watch some TV, but the words blur into nothing. I try to read, but every paragraph turns into a loop of her voice in my ear, the heat of her body next to mine.

Eventually, I shut off the lights and stand by the window, looking out at the empty street.

I think about the last month: the stolen hours, the risks, the way every secret meeting feels more necessary, not less. I know this is unsustainable. I know something’s going to break.

But for now, this is enough. I’m addicted to Eliza … and I can’t give up the curvy girl who drives me crazy.

9

CHAPTER 9 – AN INTIMATE WEEKEND

Eliza

There’s nothing like seeing your parents’ Subaru drive off for a weekend in Wisconsin when you’re conducting a secret affair with a gorgeous man. I wait exactly three minutes after their taillights vanish before sprinting upstairs to pack my overnight bag. It’s not even subtle: I’m bringing a bottle of perfume that Jack loves, a black slip dress I haven’t dared to take out of its wrapping, and a box of condoms that, if I’m honest, will probably be empty before Sunday night. This time, there’s no need to sneak back in before sunrise. For once in my life, I get to do whatever the hell I want, for as long as I want, and what I want is Jack Landry, full stop.

The drive across town is a blur, all nervous energy and pulse-throbbing anticipation. Jack told me to “come hungry,” which I know is code for both wine, steak, and sex, possibly at the same time. I rehearse a dozen cool, casual greetings in my head, each more mortifying than the last, then abandon them all and opt for the oldest trick in the book: just knock and smile. Let him do the rest.

The sun’s not even down when I park in front of his house. There’s no one around; even the next-door neighbor’s yippy dog is quiet for some reason. I smooth my hair, check my make-up in the rearview, and grab my bag, feet barely touching the ground as I bound up the walk. Before I can knock, the door swings open—of course Jack was watching for me—and there he is, black t-shirt clinging to every muscle, jeans hanging perfectly off his narrow hips, and that dark hair attractively tousled. His blue eyes gleam in a way that makes you want to put your whole body against his just to feel that hard physique against my own.

“You’re early, sweetheart,” he growls, and I swear to god I almost come right then and there.

“Couldn’t wait,” I say, and my voice is breathy with need.

He grabs my wrist, yanking me inside and slamming the door with his boot. I drop my bag, barely registering the sound as he presses me up against the cool wooden panel of the door. There’s no slow build, no preamble—just mouths, teeth, and heat, his hands everywhere at once. My cardigan is gone in a heartbeat, my shirt bunched at my shoulders as he slides his palms under the fabric, fingers hot and sure. I gasp, arching my back to bring my Double D’s into his hands, and he doesn’t disappoint—he’s rough, squeezing, pinching, then soothing with his thumbs as I mewl with need.

“You smell incredible,” he murmurs into my neck.

“It’s Chanel No. 5,” I say, but I doubt he even hears.

Jack kisses me again, deeper this time, tongue all the way in. My knees threaten to buckle, but he catches me under the thighs, lifting until I’m straddling his hips. I’m dizzy, drunk on him, the world collapsing to a pinprick that contains only this man, his scent, his body, and the need blooming in my belly.

He carries me a few steps to the foyer, sets me down on a bench, and kneels in front of me. My skirt’s up before I know it; he runs his hands up my legs, pushing the fabric higher, then slides a finger under the band of my panties. “You miss me, sweetheart?” he asks, low and dangerous.